Across a Field of Black and White
by ravynechyylde
Summary: Deep (and not so deep) thoughts over a chessboard. Each chapter can stand alone.
1. Suleiman and an OC

_In every chess match, Suleiman always loses the first piece. _

It is a strategic maneuver on his part, a gambit – often sacrificing the game for victory off of the board. He can learn many things this way – if his partner grabs at low hanging fruit, how he conducts himself in victory, if this strategy is mistaken for incompetence.

Suleiman has played many people in his short lifetime – his father, his uncle, visiting dignitaries – but the person who taught him was a _hareem_ girl: Shula, beautiful and spirited as befit her name. She was a few years older than he but had clearly seen much more of life – in all its tainted glory – than the young prince had in his gilded cage.

They played chess when he was supposed to be studying military history or court etiquette, and as the pieces moved across the board she would teach him how to read people, to invite information while revealing nothing. She would give him brief glimpses of the world outside the palace so that he would know how the citizens of Constantinople judged their leader.

Unsurprisingly, he lost every game they played. He remembers his face burning, and his childish demand – obvious behind his princely air – that they find something else to do, until he was caught by one of his father's advisors and dragged away. He remembers her dancing eyes, lined provocatively with _kohl_, and poorly hidden smile at his petulance.

One day, when he was about 12 and she 16, Shula taught him a chess opening – the Queen's gambit – that was a common stratagem used by beginners and masters alike, "such as you and I, my prince," she said coyly, not bothering to explain which role they each filled.

He ignored her jibe and gazed deeply at the board before him, the white ivory and green beryl pieces coming to life in a way they never had before. He could _see_ his victory form before his eyes as she moved pieces around the board, going through the maneuver several times and explaining the lines of attack.

He won that game and sat back with a satisfied sigh. To his surprise, so did she.

"I have nothing more to teach you," the girl said softly, pride and melancholy giving her voice an unusual timbre. "Will you remember these lessons after I am long gone?"

"What do you mean, Shula?" he asked, an unnamed fear making his voice sharp. "Where are you going?"

"It is nothing, Suleiman. You need not worry." She stroked his hair gently, her eyes lingering on his face. "I will see you tomorrow." She rose gracefully, as did he, and she curtsied with none of her usual irreverence. Struck by the solemnity of this gesture, he sketched a deep bow towards her.

They bid each other good night, then returned to their respective quarters. Suleiman lay awake for much of the night, thinking about his victory and the feeling of unrest from their parting.

She had spoken _some _truth. They did see each other the next day, as he sat in the receiving hall of Topkapi Palace and watched the Sultan trade pleasantries with the ambassador of Macedonia, offering his military support and a gift of arms, jewelry, and several of his most enchanting _hareem_ girls.

Of course Shula was among them, veils covering her thickly braided hair and dusky skin. Of course she had known.

He wanted to shout: _Who will play with me? And teach me about the world outside these walls? Why didn't you tell me?_

For once, he observed the dictates of his position and remained still, his face impassive and his posture painfully straight, only his eyes betraying his anguish. To her credit, she did not look away from him, but held his gaze as long as she could until she was led away by the guards to the harbor, where a ship to Macedonia awaited her. He let the droning talk ebb and flow around him, staring at the spot she had last stood, sadness overwhelming the betrayal he felt.

As soon as he was able, he left the walls of Topkapi Palace – and the heavy hand of his father – and traveled extensively, to learn and experience as much as he could. And with every king laid down on the board, he would think of her graceful hands and clear eyes. One day, he is sure, he will find himself seated across her, a chess board between them, and he awaits the lengthy critique of his playing style and the bright laughter she is sure to bring.


	2. Suleiman and Ezio

_In every chess match, Suleiman always loses the first piece._

That he can say with this absolute certainty means Ezio has spent too much watching the young prince, but his careful observation has paid dividends.

He notes that the young prince sacrifices his pieces in a very calculating way. It is not so simple as poor management of his forces, or ignorance about the lines of attack. Suleiman is a master tactician, and the young prince can obtain information about his partner even as he gracefully acknowledges his 'cunning.'

Of course, Ezio smiles to himself, it is _usually_ a strategic maneuver.

As they play each other for the first time on the balcony of Suleiman's chambers, the youth is clearly distracted. He is not playing with his usual subtlety and foresight. He is flushed in the cool night air, and his face betrays a wavering control whenever Ezio meets his glance. The older man decides to test a theory.

"Are you all right, _efendim_?" he asks, pitching his voice low. The scratchy rumble, tinged with amusement, has the desired effect.

"I am, my friend, I am," Suleiman assures him quickly, his cheeks darkening. "You are simply a better player, and I am scrambling to keep up with you." He suits action to words and moves his bishop out.

"Do not take it so hard, my prince," Ezio responds with an easy grin as he lays a hand on his knight, "I am using my Gift of Vision to every advantage."

Suleiman's eyes dart to his, and he laughs as he realizes he is being teased. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted, eh?"

Ezio nods. "In chess, as in life, _efendim_."

Suleiman presses his attack, then casually asks, "Is there any way I might convince you to call me Suleiman?"

The assassin claims a pawn. "I must admit, I enjoy the way these Turkish words roll of my tongue. But," he says with a hint of sorrow, "it seems my pronunciation is not pleasing to your ears."

"Oh no!" Suleiman exclaims quickly, "your pronunciation is quite good! I enjoy what your Italian tongue can do!"

There is a moment of heavy silence, as Suleiman absorbs what he has just said, and Ezio's smile takes on a predatory edge.

"Ah… forgive me. I only meant that your accent lends a certain… novelty… to the words of my language. It is… pleasing." He grabs the cup of pomegranate juice and takes a long, deliberate drink.

Ezio lets the silence linger – a favorite tactic of his own – feeling more and more assured that his theory is correct. Finally Suleiman looks up, and Ezio studies his features: his clear brown eyes, the gentle blush on his cheeks, his soft lips stained a deep red from the pomegranate juice. A most tempting sight.

"I did not mean to offend you, _signiore_," the prince continues hesitantly, "by expressing an unwelcome interest."

"There is no offense if the interest is reciprocated, is that not so, _arkedashim_?" When he scans the young man's face and sees embarrassment receding behind growing hope, Ezio stands up, leans over the table, and presses his own lips against the prince's, tasting residual pomegranate. "It seems that you are not the only one with a fondness for his tongue on another's lips."

Suleiman regards him with a level gaze, appearing somber as his desires war with his self-control. A chess game he plays by himself.

"I would hear you call me _amante_ at least once tonight. Is my wish unreasonable?"

The slight crease between Suleiman's eyebrows vanishes, and a smile, both easy and inviting, lightens his expression. "No, _sevgilin_. But I imagine 'reason' has very little to do with what is to come." He raises an eyebrow. "I certainly hope not."

Ezio nods slowly. "Then we are of one mind. Come, the night is young but not endless, and there are many things I wish to hear you say." He holds out his hand to help Suleiman up, and two leave the balcony for the downy cushions and sandalwood incense burners of the prince's bedroom.

Suleiman regards Ezio carefully as they enter the prince's personal quarters and remarks, "You seem well-satisfied, although, as you say, the night is young."

Ezio approaches until he invades Suleiman's personal space, pleased that the young man stands his ground. He grasps the prince's hands and kisses each in turn. "It is my favorite kind of gambit, _Shehzadem_ – I have taken the risk, so that we may both profit."


End file.
